


Constantly Changing, Yet Surprisingly Solid

by Hekate1308



Series: Sherlock Holmes/Sally Donovan Universe [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sherlock/Sally Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-30 21:53:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1023826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hekate1308/pseuds/Hekate1308
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once, life was easy. He was "the freak", she was "Donovan", they hated each other. He died, and she started thinking about him as "Sherlock". Then he returned, and everything changed. Sherlock/Sally, Post-Reichenbach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Constantly Changing, Yet Surprisingly Solid

**Author's Note:**

> While "Of Anniversaries and Second Chances" gave me the idea, this is the first story where I ever portrayed Sherlock Holmes and Sally Donovan in a romantic light while trying to keep them in character.

Once, her life was easy to understand, easy to comprehend, never really changing, black and white, yes, but clear, precise, predictable.

Then Sherlock Holmes happened.

At first it was easy enough with him in it, too. He was sarcastic, she was jealous. He was “the freak”, she was “Donovan”, or, if he wanted to annoy her (more than he did anyway), “Sally”, with each syllable spit out like it left a bad taste in his mouth. They hated each other; it was as simple as that.

Then, he jumped off a building and (apparently) died, and her guilt made not only appear a sarcastic, annoying voice quite like his in the back of her head, but it made her eventually grieve for him and visit his grave, and slowly, he became “Sherlock” in her mind. No more freak.

Of course, she was rather convinced it would stay that way – Sherlock, dead, but very much alive in her head. She even got used to it, after a while – and it’s not like she could escape thinking about him anyway, not when she was the leader of the taskforce re-investigating his cases and finding time and time again that he was right. And, even after this work had ended, there was DI Lestrade, back from suspension, who asked her to join his team just like in the old times, and she did, because there was nothing else she could do, and the consulting detective pranced around once again at crime scenes, if only in her head.

Not that she had anyone in her private life to take her mind off things. After she’d broken things off with Anderson (gloating over a death, this awful arrogant mind-numbingly dull – Good, God, did she really just think _that_? – she’s still sorry she didn’t see the DI punch him in the face, though. Must have been quite a sight), there’d been a few dates, but nothing long-term had come out of it. But, to be fair, she hadn’t really missed having a man in her life.

So, three years after Sherlock’s death, she had found an uneven balance; yes, she might think differently about him, but all in all, her life was still clear and understandable, she was a Sergeant, she worked, she went home, she had dinner, she spent the evening alone, she went to bed, she stood up, and the cycle repeated itself. Black and white, yes, but somehow comforting in its predictability.

And then Sherlock Holmes returned. And all her certainties started slipping out of her grasp.

Of course, in typical Sherlock Holmes fashion, he didn’t return by showing up at the Yard or simply knocking on Doctor Watson’s front door. No, of course, she, Sally, of all people, had to stumble over him in the disguise of an old homeless violin player, and because in his surprise at seeing her at the cemetery (she’d just wanted to pay her respect, it was the third anniversary of his death, after all) he’d shown her who he was, she took him home with her.

And because he told her he’d be sleeping in the streets for two nights (he needed to speak to DI Lestrade before he could return, and her boss wouldn’t be returning until Monday from a seminar), she offered him to stay on her sofa.

And that’s when her world of black and white finally started to dissolve.

Not into shades of grey, though. No, suddenly it was full of colours.

Because, years ago, it was easy. He was a freak, she was Donovan. They hated each other.

But she was a different woman back then.

And, although he is trying to conceal the fact, he was a different man.

Now – now she doesn’t know what is going on. Maybe she is losing her mind, maybe she’s already lost it.

Either way, she doesn’t really care.

Because waking up to a world of colour, after years of living in black and white, it’s a little bit frightening, yes, but also wonderful.

Of course, this doesn’t make things easier.

They could have kept it as easy as the Sherlock-Holmes-returned-from-the-dead-and-spent-two-nights-on-her-sofa-situation would allow. But – well, it’s Sherlock Holmes, and nothing is ever easy with him.

Nowadays, when the meet at crime scenes or at the Yard, she still calls him “freak”, but they both know it’s a nickname now, he calls her “Sally”, but without venom in his voice. When he wants to show somebody something, and the DI and Doctor Watson are talking or standing in the back or doing something else, he turns to her.

Anderson looks at her strangely and, sometimes, Lestrade and Doctor Watson shoot her looks she doesn’t understand the meaning of.

But it doesn’t even stop there, and that’s when it gets really complicated.

And to think, she actually believed he’d never set another foot in her flat.

The first time it happens, he’s been back for about two weeks. He doesn’t even knock; he just picks the look, and she doesn’t look where her gun is, because she knows there is only one person who would pick her lock while she’s in the flat.

He doesn’t explain much, just says “John has a date and Greg is at the Yard and there are no cases or experiments I haven’t done already” like it explains everything, and maybe it does.

And so, there are even more colours in the kaleidoscope her life has become.

It happens on a regular basis, after that first time.

 They eat, or they drink tea, he comes and goes at all hours. Now and then, he plays the violin for her, he realized early on that she loves Beethoven, so it’s usually one of his pieces.

And then, eventually, as if the whole situation wasn’t crazy enough, they start to talk.

Just about normal stuff – normal stuff for Sherlock Holmes, that is, cases, experiments, etc – at first, but then –

Gradually, he starts talking about the last three years. Just bits and pieces that slowly form a coherent picture, and when she realizes what he has done in those three years, she doesn’t arrest him or act scared or does anything she would have done before he died.

Instead, she asks questions.

What is Rio de Janeiro like, and is Tibet really so beautiful? And he answers, and sometimes it seems that she sees a thankful look in his eyes, but she doesn’t say anything.

After a few months, she gives him a key. She doesn’t think her landlord would appreciate all the lock-picking going on. He takes it without comment.

Before long, they have dinner in restaurants or coffee together, usually when there hasn’t been a case in over a week and he didn’t have the time or energy to come to her flat. They actually call it “catching up”.

And then, they are mistaken for a couple for the first time. A guy in a coffee shop gives Sherlock the thumbs up in passing and says “You’re a lucky man, mate.” And when she looks at the consulting detective, she isn’t sure what his eyes tell her.

 She tries to do what he does – delete such things. It doesn’t really work.

But it’s only when he almost falls to his death – again, and this time, probably much more permanently – that she realizes she’s in trouble. But at least it’s trouble, full of colours.

He’s chasing after a paedophile – Doctor Watson behind him, like always, of course – and they are jumping and running on the roofs of London. DI Lestrade and her give chase on the ground, meanwhile. And then he slips, only barely manages to hold on to the roof, and for a few seconds, before Doctor Watson saves him once again, she thinks _I’m going to lose him_ and nothing is important anymore and the colours start seeping from her life –

But then he’s back on his feet and still manages to catch the paedophile and acts like nothing happened, and she wants to hit him and to hug him and does neither.

And when she comes home she turns on the telly as loud as she can without waking up the neighbours, because she desperately tries to drown out the voice in her head that’s telling her that –

That she’s falling in love with Sherlock Holmes.

She tries to ignore it, tries to tell herself it’s a stupid little crush. But, a few days later, when John brings his new girlfriend home and Sherlock decides to “vacate the premises” and DI Lestrade is on a date with Molly and he spends the night on her sofa, and she wakes up at three am to the sound of Beethoven and sneaks into the living room and sees his silhouette against the window playing the instrument –

She knows she’s doomed.

She’s in love with Sherlock Holmes, and it’s scary and exhilarating and awful and colourful and the worst and the best thing that’s ever happened to her, and she doesn’t know what to do, but she wouldn’t have it any other way.

Others begin to suspect.

One day, at a crime scene, Sherlock is once again lost in his own world, gesticulating, proclaiming loudly “Can’t you see?”, and, before Doctor Watson can say a word, she says “Then take us through it, freak” and he starts explaining, and his best friend seems to see something in her, suddenly, and Anderson looks like he’s feeling slightly sick, and DI Lestrade looks – smug? No, that can’t be.

When Lestrade next tells her they have a case, and she asks, out of habit by now, “Shall I call Sherlock, sir?” he stands up and closes the door to his office. And looks at her.

“So...”

“So what, sir?”

“You and Sherlock.”

“We are friends.”

Too quick. And Lestrade is an excellent investigator. Oh, he knows, of course he knows.

He reacts differently than she would have expected him to, though.

“My God, a few months ago, I would have thought it impossible, but now–“. He shrugs his shoulders. “Just don’t take anything for granted, with Sherlock Holmes.”

And then she leaves his office and is confused; why would he say “But now?” It takes two, after all, and even if she–

But could Sherlock have said something–

No, stop right there. She’s already gone insane, she doesn’t need more madness.

Then, a few weeks after that, a black limousine stops next to her while she’s walking to Tesco, and a young woman opens the door. “Please get in, Sergeant Donovan.”

Mycroft. Has to be. Sherlock has told her about his brother, by this time, and she knows he kidnaps everyone who is important – who comes more often than necessary in contact with Sherlock, that’s what she wanted to think. Definitely.

He is every bit as posh as she remembers him from waiting in the shadows while he stood at his brother’s grave – of course, she didn’t know who he was then.

“Sergeant Donavan. A pleasure to meet you.”

“Mr. Holmes” she answers. He raises a perfectly trimmed eyebrow.

“So, my brother told you about me –“ “That you are his older brother, always wear an umbrella and kidnap his friends on a regular basis, yes.”

“So that’s what you are, then, friends?” 

She swallows. “Yes, I – I suppose so.”

He smiles. “Well, I’ve been informed that he spends nights at your flat–“

“How well do you know him?”, she asks, genuinely baffled. He actually laughs at that.

“Well, you may be right. But, just in case–“ He looks at her, and his eyes turn to steel. She swallows again. “Be careful, Sally. Very very careful.” And then he strides away, and the young woman brings her home. Of course, by the time she remembers Tesco’s, the shops have closed.

So his own brother thinks – but why? No, can’t be. It just can’t.            

The next day, there’s a case, and her eyes follow Sherlock, as usual. She almost doesn’t realize Doctor Watson’s standing next to her until he speaks. “You seem a bit on edge, today.”

She doesn’t want to lie, so she tells him the truth. “Mycroft gave me the big-brother-talk.”

“You mean the whole–“

“”If you hurt him, I’ll hurt you”. Sort of. As if that isn’t the most ridiculous thing –“

But Doctor Watson looks from Sherlock to her, and then he says “Call me John.” It’s all he says, but it holds so much meaning.

The first time it happens, it’s unexpected, and the colours are swirling around her, and she has long ago lost all her balance. He’s standing in her flat, once again, and he seems – nervous? No. Impossible.

“Sherlock, are you alright?”

“Fine. Perfectly fine. I just had a talk with John... and then with Greg... and then with my brother. I understand you met him.”

“Yes, I did – no wonder you look a bit done for.” His lips twitch at that.

“Yes, well, he can be exhausting, I suppose.” And then he moves his hand in a way that she knows means “Oh, sod it all” in Sherlock, and he just asks, “Sally, could you hold still? I need to confirm a theory, and I need data.”

“Well, then, do what you have to do, freak”, she teases him, and doesn’t realize what he’s about to do until it happens.

Sherlock Holmes kisses Sally Donovan.

And the world shifts again, and this time, there’s not even solid ground under her feet, but it’s wonderful, oh so wonderful.

They don’t talk much about it, not even after they become intimate, about two months after their first kiss, and she realizes she must be the first for him, and that makes her so ridiculously happy she could cry. They don’t need to talk about it; they know what they have, and it’s enough.

When she tells her sister, she asks “The guy who came back from the dead. The one you couldn’t stand before? Really?” and she answers “Yes” and there must have been something in her tone, because her sister leaves it at that.  

And they even have dates, and the first time he takes her to Angelo’s and introduces her to the owner, she thinks the Italian gentleman might actually start to cry. Instead, he orders a bottle of champagne, on the house, and the end up in 221B in Sherlock’s bed slightly tipsy.

The next morning, she puts on her clothes from the night before and goes to the kitchen without waking him – when he sleeps, he sleeps – and finds John already there, making tea. He simply says “Good morning” and gives her a cuppa, and then they talk of something else.

Just once does he broach the subject. “He’s happy, you know”, and the “Thank you” hangs in the air between them. She answers “I’m happy too” and then Sherlock strides in the kitchen, and she isn’t sure if he heard her, but she doesn’t care.

Because this – this is different and her world keeps swaying and changing and yet it is surprisingly solid, even if something as weird as going on a triple date with Lestrade – no, Greg is what she’s supposed to call him now – and Molly and John and Mary, his latest girlfriend, happens. And she wouldn’t have it any other way.

Because, yes, her whole black and white world came undone, and she doesn’t know what the future will bring, and the colours keep swirling and it’s strange and scary and exhilarating and wonderful –

And she’s happier than she’s even been in her life. And that’s all that matters.


End file.
